


A Breath of Autumn

by nessascribbles, Tharros



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It, Not rushed, many other characters and pairings, starts at the end of season 5 and goes our own way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-03-14 14:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18949828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nessascribbles/pseuds/nessascribbles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tharros/pseuds/Tharros
Summary: The Seven Kingdoms are at war and the Night King is on the rise. People all across Westeros and Essos can feel the winds of winter stirring, but first, there is much still to be done.We pick up with Jon Snow dead at his Brothers' hands and Dany captured by a khalasar on the Great Grass Sea. Sansa and Theon are on the run from Ramsey, Tommen is still King on the Iron Throne with Margaery at his side, and Arya is in Braavos across the Narrow Sea.We will be focusing on many of the characters and exploring many new ideas. Beginning at the end of season five and moving forward along our own route, we hope to do these characters some justice.





	1. Jon I

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you may know us from our previous works together, but we decided to switch gears and move on to Game of Thrones. Like many of you, we were disappointed by the rushed, often out of character ending given to the show, so we we decided to write our own version. The problems can be traced all the way back to the point where George R. R. Martin's books ended and the showrunners had to write everything themselves. This is not to say that they didn't do some great things, but they set a lot into motion in season 6 and we want to take it our own way. 
> 
> We're sticking with seasons 1-5 as our canon rather than focusing too heavily on the books, because we know that more people watched than read and we don't want to alienate anyone. There will likely be hints at things from the books (especially things like prophecies), but on the whole, we plan to pick up right after the events of season 5 and take things our own way. We have lots of ideas and we love these characters and we hope we can do them some justice.
> 
> That said, we are trying to write this as true to George R. R. Martin's way as possible. And that means that actions have consequences and sometimes the wrong people die. We have no intentions of killing anyone just for a plot twist or for shock value.

Since young, all children in Winterfell were warned against playing on frozen lakes.

It was impossible to tell where the ice was thin or thick enough to cross, where it was safe and wasn't. Old Nan told horror stories of children frozen under a layer of ice, drowning in the cold—alone and desperate. It became a bedtime story on cold nights, a warning for all children to stay away, but children were curious all the same.

And young children made mistakes.

Robb was but eleven when Jon and Theon ran behind him in the forest surrounding Winterfell. They were meant to be training, but managed to steal a moment away when Ser Rodrik had dozed off during their break to eat. Together, they ran and played as young boys do, pushing each other in the woods until Robb skidded too far and ended on the very pool they were warned against ever stepping on.

Panic was the last thing they needed.

They had learned their lesson to walk carefully in the event they ended in a lake frozen over with ice, to test the limit of the ice beneath their feet, but each step Robb took was met with a crack. Together, Jon and Theon worked to find sticks long enough to help Robb hold onto, to keep his balance and pull him towards the shore. Their plan would have worked, had Jon not stumbled just as Robb reached the edge of the frozen water.

While Robb climbed out, Jon fell in.

He'd never forget it—the moment he crashed painfully against the ice, how he wasn't sure if it was the ice or his bones that cracked louder, or how when the water hit his body and swallowed it whole it felt like he would never breathe again.

Immediately, the cold set into his body. The cracked ice froze over once he was through and darkness soon followed, and Jon Snow who knew little of death knew that this would be his last moment.

He was prepared for it.

In a last moment of clarity, he thought it was a foolish way to go, to be just another warning story wet nurses would use to scare children of the reality that was now his death.

But he didn't die.

Minutes felt like hours, and when he came back to consciousness with Ser Rodrik over him, he wasn't sure if he'd rather be dead than feeling the cold dead weight of his body pressing him to the ground. It was a strange sensation, to have his limbs feel numb and yet be able to feel the cold as it settled into the tips of his fingers, up the length of his arms and legs, freezing his knees, his stomach, everywhere in his body.

Somehow, he survived. He was haunted by the memory of that day for months and even years after the accident. And he swore to never step foot on a frozen lake again, panic settling in his bones each time that he had to bathe and he felt the water take him once more. But, like all childhood fears, as he grew they were forgotten, including the fear of that cold dead weight that swallowed him that day.

He never thought he'd feel that again. He never thought of it even as he went beyond the Wall and saw monsters from bedtime stories come to life, White Walkers by the thousands rising no more than a feet away from him.

And yet, the moment his back hit the snow after his brothers of the Night's Watch had stabbed him one at a time he felt that same cold. That weight that dragged him down.

He let it happen, to a degree.

He accepted his fate the moment the first blade pierced his body.

He understood their feelings of betrayal and how it drove them to their own, and maybe that's why he didn't call for help. He knew his wounds were too many, too deep. There was nothing to be done but accept his fate and perhaps die without regrets because he'd begun  _something_  worthwhile, given them a shot at defeating the army of the dead.

His watch would end with the living having a better shot at doing just that—living.

And that darkness took him once more with a sense of calm he didn't know he could feel.

A never-ending black sea with no beginning or end, no noise, no thought, nothing but  _black_.

Fitting, perhaps, for a brother of the Watch.

This was to be his eternity, but in a simple flash of orange light it was stolen from him, an accepted fate pulled from under him.

Jon awoke with a sharp inhale of breath, much like the one he'd taken as a young boy pulled from the water, panting as his body lay still on what felt like a wooden table, heavy and unresponsive as his brain tried to catch up with the events that had happened.

 _What_  had happened?

Images of Alliser Thorne, Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck, and others piercing his chest with a blade flashed through his mind.

He thought he was dead.

No.

He  _was_  dead.

Except, now he wasn't.

Jon sat up quickly, the world spinning around him, his body slow and weak to follow the movements he tried to make, as if he was still stuck somewhere between  _here_  and wherever  _there_  had been. Nothing felt real, nothing held true  _weight_ other than his limbs binding him to this world.

He had died and there was  _nothing_  beyond.

Only black.

One look down and his thoughts were confirmed, his memories were true—his chest and stomach bore half-healed stab wounds, four to be exact.

Alliser Thorne, he thinks, touching the lowest one, then Bowen Marsh with the one that followed, and Othell Yarwyck, right above that, and finally —

 _Olly_.

The pain was fresh all over as he felt the deep mark over his heart.

He'd failed him, somehow doing what he thought was right, Jon failed him, and in turn Olly had been the one to put the final blade in his heart that turned the world cold.

A pant closer to a sob left him, another following as panic began to bubble in his chest. A loud bang had Jon flinching, stopping his panic for a moment as wood hit stone and the door to the room opened.

Ser Davos appeared in the doorframe.

Davos pushed into the room and was at Jon's side quicker than a heartbeat, pulling the cloak from around his shoulders and tugging it around Jon instead. Without any sort of gentleness, Davos put his hands on Jon's face, his thumbs pulling Jon's eye wide as Davos studied it in the torchlight.

"Fuck all, the woman actually did it," he muttered, helping Jon steady himself on the table.

The movements were so quick Jon barely noticed them. Despite the cold drifting in through the open door, he barely felt anything, his mind unable to process everything at once.

"Did it?" Jon asked, voice coming out rough with lack of use, with Gods knew what what else. He turned his body on the table, his feet barely touching the floor, legs feeling weak and wobbly, whatever he was still returning to his body. "Did what, exactly? What did she do? I... I shouldn't be here, I should have—I remember... I remember... it."

"Best soon forget it, if you want any peace," Davos said, dragging a chair loudly across the floor and perching on the edge of it to look up at Jon. Davos rested his elbows on his knees, hiding his mouth behind steepled, too-short fingers. "Whether you should or shouldn't be here makes no difference, here you be."

"How long?" Jon asked, focusing only on the man before him, everything else feeling overwhelming and unreal all in one. "How long has it been since...?" he choked on the word, ' _how long since I died_? It sounded like something made up, some horror story.

Some song.

"Two days, almost. Hard to tell with this blasted Northern darkness, but no more than that, I'd say."

 _Two days_.

The words echoed in his mind, once more the reality of it weighed on him and yet seemed surreal. He'd been dead two days and it felt like  _nothing,_  a blink of an eye, a long night's sleep where everything felt like a dream — or a nightmare.

"And the others?" he asked, unsure for a moment  _who_  he was asking about.

"Alive, for the most part," Davos said, hesitating for the first time since he walked into the room. "You... well... the Red Woman brought you back, Snow, and magic like that... well according to her it has a price."

Jon's blood ran cold at the mention of a  _price_ , his mind jumping from place to place on what it might be, but thoughts were useless when he could simply ask.

" _What_  price?" he asked, his voice rough and trembling—he wanted no one to pay for what was his own mistake, his own doing.

This was his fault, his failure, his price to pay and he had with his life. He  _shouldn't_  be back and yet he was and for it... for it  _what?_

"It was my decision, not yours," Davos said sternly, giving Jon a hard look. "You might not see it, but you're worth a hell of a lot more to everyone here alive than dead."

He paused, looking down at his gloved hands for a moment before continuing. "I know your wolf meant a lot to you, Snow. That's the point, I figure, with this sort of magic. But you meant a lot to him in return. He didn't try to fight any of it."

" _Ghost_." The name came out like a breath, a sob, and against his better judgement Jon tried to stand, only for his legs to fail him. Davos was ready for it and caught him, hooking his arms under Jon's and hauling him up to his feet.

"He was a loyal friend to you. I'm sorry for the loss. But I'm not sorry for the choice."

"Take me to him," Jon asked, not caring anymore, not wanting to hear any of it.

Not him, not Ghost, this couldn't be real, this couldn't be  _it_ , he wasn't worth it—any of it.

"P-please, take me to him," Jon breathed out again, pushing off of Davos and bracing himself with a hand on the table behind him.

"Pants first, Lord Snow," Davos said, giving Jon a look that said he understood better than Jon could ever know. He made sure Jon was steady before turning to a trunk along the wall and pulling out a fresh set of black clothes. "I'll take you, but I imagine your brothers will want to see you, too."

"I-I can't," Jon said, choking on the words, leaning back on the table behind him and inhaling shakily. "I can't, can't you  _see_  that? I failed them, all of them, I failed... I failed  _all_  of them, Ghost was... They  _all_  are my responsibility, and I thought I knew how to... How to do this..."

Jon sighed out a breath, looking down at the cold stone floor beneath his feet, the weight of his own body nothing compared to the weight in his heart.

 _Ghost_.

His life was not worth it, not for  _him_ , not for his most loyal companion, his friend, his... his  _family_ , the only thing left connecting him to who he was, a  _Stark_ , not in name but in blood.

He wasn't worthy of that kind of sacrifice.

"You failed," Davos repeated, standing in front of Jon. "And you will fail again. But what's the point of any of it if you can't learn from it and do better?" He took off his glove to reveal the stumps of the fingers Stannis once chopped off. "If no one gets a second chance, nothing ever changes."

Jon looked at Davos' shortened fingers and back down to the wounds in his chest, and he might have been sick had anything been in his stomach, but there was nothing there, nothing left.

Not really.

"No one in their right mind should follow me," Jon said grimly. "I was  _dead_ , and now I'm not, how can anyone explain that? That isn't a second chance that's..." He shook his head, there were no words for it.

 _This_  sort of second chance was something else entirely and he wasn't sure he deserved it.

"Funny thing about leadership," Davos said, holding the clothes out to Jon again. "You don't get pick who follows you."

Jon pursed his lips, knowing that despite disliking it, Ser Davos was right. He hadn't meant for  _any_  of this to happen. He followed what he thought was right, and got murdered for it, yet somehow people still stood by him. He didn't quite understand why.

"And look where that's gotten hundreds of men," Jon said, taking the clothes all the same. With a small nod of a thank you, he started to dress himself, still shaky in his movements but feeling stronger by the minute.

Davos shrugged and gave Jon a hard look. "Hundreds of men chose their fate when they decided to follow you. And most of 'em are still here."

He'd barely pulled his pants on when there was another shadow at the door and Jon looked up to see the Red Woman standing there. She'd brought him back, but one look at her and he knew she hadn't thought she could. Her eyes were wide and lips parted—she wouldn't have answers to the questions stewing in his head.

Davos bowed his head in greeting. "Seems you have the gift after all."

"The gift is not mine but the Lord of Light's," Melisandre said, though her words sounded far away, her focus solely on Jon. She took careful, measured steps into the room. "And he has deemed you worthy of a second chance," she continued, reaching where he stood, raising a hand to turn his face to look at her, searching for something in his eyes.

"This shouldn't be possible," Jon whispered, unsure he'd even said the words.

"And yet it has happened, and the Lord of Light has his reasons," she answered, lowering her hand. "Did you see anything? Did He show you anything? What was there beyond death?"

A moment of silence passed as Jon gathered himself.

"Nothing," Jon breathed out. "I saw nothing, there  _was_  nothing, nothing but black..."

The answer clearly was not what she expected or wanted. There was a flash of concern and confusion in her eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it showed up.

"Our Lord led me to Stannis and I believed him to be the Prince that was Promised, but he in turn lead me to you," Melisandre said, folding her hands neatly in front of her dress. "This isn't any ordinary gift, a price has been paid for your life. A life for another. You are here now as the Lord has decided, it's now time for us to find that reason."

"And if he's made a mistake?"

"The Lord of Light makes no mistake, Jon Snow," Melisandre answered, stepping away and looking at Ser Davos and back to Jon. "I will let the others know. Finish getting dressed, I'm sure many will be waiting to see you once more."

Once Melisandre was gone, Davos turned to Jon, his face softening a bit as his sighed and put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Gods make mistakes just as often as men. If they didn't, this world would be less of a shit hole. But whether this was a mistake is up to you."

"I suppose I have little choice now," Jon said, though Jon's lips twitched into a hint of a smile at Davos' blunt wording. If the price had been paid already, there was nothing he could do to revert it. And for Ghost, for the living, and for those who believed in him, he'd walk out of here and figure out what came next. He could swallow the pain for a few minutes and be who was needed.

He always did.

That much he'd learned from his father.

He finished getting dressed, the cape of Lord Commander on his back feeling heavier than it'd ever felt, but the cold was passing. The darkness still loomed behind him, but no longer ahead of him. Dressed, no one could see the marks on his chest that were sure to scar and be a constant reminder of this day and the ones before it.

"Good man," Davos said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on now, there are lots of folks who want to see you, and I'll take you to the wolf."

"Ghost, his name is Ghost," Jon said, knowing in the grand scheme of things it might not matter, but it did to him.

A stupid thing to focus on, but he wanted Ghost's name to be remembered. If people thought Jon's life was worth so much, let them know it wasn't for free, that for this second chance a steep price was paid—Ghost's life for his.

"Ghost, then," Davos repeated, pushing through the door and out into the biting cold of the ramparts of Castle Black. The brothers of the Watch were waiting below, as were many of the Wildlings, all looking up in anticipation.

Jon stood straight as he came into view, but what was there to say when he barely understood what was happening?

He walked to railing of the rampart, looking over the faces of his brothers and the Wildlings among them, all looking at him the same way—with awe and unease. He saw Edd and Tormund among them, the first waiting for something while the other grinned, and he wondered what they were thinking. Surely they had better ideas in their heads than he did about what all of this meant.

"I know you have questions," Jon began, addressing all of them at once. "I have some myself, but the truth is... The truth is I don't have any answers, the truth is I don't know  _what_  happened or  _how_  it happened. I just know I'm back and that's all that matters and all I will focus on.  _Nothing_  has changed. There is an army of the dead North of the wall, a War coming with it, and  _that_  is our true priority, as it was before anything happened."

"I took an oath—one that I still believe in, but  _this_  is bigger than the Night's Watch can handle alone, and until we have a plan we will continue to work here as we have. Tomorrow at supper we'll hold a meeting to discuss where the Night's Watch is headed and..." He paused for a moment, heart heavy in his chest.

Olly's face flashed through his mind. He was so young, lost so much already due to people he knew, loved, and trusted. Jon understood, to a degree, the pain that Olly must have felt to make the decision he made, that bad influences along with the pain of his own loss turned him against Jon. He was too focused on the War beyond the Wall to realize the boy he'd taken to guide and teach had been as lost as Jon was now. Probably even more.

He'd failed Olly, a boy younger than Bran, a boy that was his brother of the Night's Watch and just as much his family as the Starks.

He'd  _failed_.

And that still didn't change what Jon had to do as Lord Commander.

Olly, along with the rest of the men who had stabbed him, had betrayed the Night's Watch, and the price for that was his life.

There was no changing it.

Everything came with a price, a consequence, something to be lost in order to be gained. Jon didn't even want to think yet of the price of his own life, of what had already happened that he had no power to change.

With a shaky breath, Jon steadied himself for the words he needed to say as Lord Commander. "Two days from now, Alliser Thorne, Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck, and Olly will be hung for treason. There's work to be done, get to it."

He finished talking but everyone stayed still, and for a moment he wasn't sure anyone had even heard just stood and gawked at him.

"Alright, you heard him, move your asses," Tormund shouted, clapping his hands. Wildlings scattered and tried to look busy, moving to different edges of the courtyard, but most of them had nowhere to go or nothing to do yet.

The brothers of the Night's Watch stared at him for a moment longer, most of them looking unsure. Jon had died and come back to life, that was unheard of in any way other than wights and even that they'd only learned of recently. Maybe they were all waiting for him to turn, for this to be some trick, or maybe they were waiting for him to drop dead again.

Part of him waiting for that too, wondering if this strange magic would hold, and if it did, for how long.

Some of them turned to Edd, looking for confirmation they could trust Jon, that his orders were still to be followed, only moving to do what they had to once Edd nodded.

Jon sighed in relief once he watched his brothers move around Castle Black, some guiding Wildlings to where they could rest, others beginning to train once more, while some simply returned to their usual duties—cooking, guarding, cleaning, things that felt too  _normal_  considering all that had happened.

Looking back at Davos, Jon nodded once, ready for whatever came next.

"First step's always the hardest," Davos said, tilting his head toward the stairs that would lead them down to the courtyard where Jon's brothers had murdered him only nights ago. "But you've got good men down there."

Jon cracks a hint of a smile at that, walking towards the stairs and meeting Edd at the bottom. He swallowed all emotion, all the feelings trying to push their way through to the surface, knowing that he couldn't break, not now, not yet. There was work to be done and he needed to be what was necessary for  _now_.

"You're really back, huh?" Edd asked, that edge of unease and hope still in his eyes.

"Seems like it," Jon said with a sharp inhale and slow exhale, still processing it all, the smell of fresh snow and the cold in the air reminding him of a time long ago where Winterfell was home.

"Then welcome back," Edd said, wrapping his arms around Jon's shoulders and tugging him into a tight embrace, Jon wincing as pain flashed through his wounds. "There's much yet for us to do."

"Aye, there is," Jon agreed, pulling back.

"What now?"

"Now I'd like to see Ghost. And after... after we'll speak more of this," Jon said, trying to keep his voice level and thoughts of his loyal companion at bay, knowing that had to wait a moment longer.

"Ha- _HA!_ " A loud laugh interrupted them as Tormund walked over and tossed an arm around Jon. "You  _lucky_  fuckin' bastard," he said clapping Jon on the back, making him grunt at the slightly pain. " _Ah!_  You've suffered worse, don't be goin' soft on me for just a pat, hm? Back from the  _dead_ , but not as a wight! Wonder if you would have pulled that on me when we almost dropped ya at the wall."

"No," Jon said, shaking his head and breathing slowly in and out, his limbs aching under the weight of Tormund's arm. "No, I think it's just a one time deal, or I hope so at least."

"Back from the dead and complainin', you know how many would like the chance?" Tormund said, words rough but well-intentioned as he let Jon go.

Still, Jon only replied with a wry smile. "You didn't have to come, you're free to roam and go as you want."

"No, I had to come back after what that Crow pulled, plus who else would be mad enough to try all the shit you have? I wanna know where this ends up."

"We  _saw_  where it ended up, it'd be better for all of you to go," Jon said with a small frown, not understanding how he could make light of the entire situation.

"But it didn't end, don't you see? Here you are, and here we are, ready for what comes next," Tormund said, rubbing his hands together.

Jon pursed his lips, knowing there would be no changing Tormund's mind.

"We're just glad you're back," Edd said, looking from Tormund to Jon, "Whatever you need, we'll follow."

"Thank you," Jon said despite that voice inside him that told him he wasn't worthy of their trust, of them wanting to follow him. He wouldn't waste the time on those thoughts. He needed to make his second chance worth  _something_ , and there  _was_  a War coming with the Night King, whether they were ready or not—he'd rather be ready even if he didn't see himself fit for battle.

"Don't get all sentimental now, I'm not kneeling for you any time soon," Tormund teased with a nod of his head before walking off, back towards the Wildlings who were beginning to find jobs to do or places to rest.

"Make sure everyone is well taken care of, I have something to do first," Jon said to Edd, the man nodding and walking away behind Tormund. Jon watched for a moment before turning to Davos, "Take me to him."

Davos opened his mouth, but there was nothing to say, and without a word he nodded and turned, Jon following a few steps behind. He led Jon through the courtyard where a soft snow fell, accumulating in small piles on the cold stone, and through the gate of Castle Black.

Ghost lay on a pyre and the snow collected in his fur, white on white and not a hint of blood. Jon knew better than to think Ghost was simply sleeping, but for a moment, he hoped. Hoped it wasn't real, hoped that he'd still see Ghost's red eyes bright and ready to do whatever they had to do, never faltering and always at his side.

But that was death, it took without thought, it came without notice for most and left those that still lived with a part of themselves missing.

Death had come for Jon; he'd accepted it only to be forced back into his aching, heavy body, and in turn he'd lost one of the most important parts of himself—Ghost.

"It was painless, I think," Davos said, stepping aside to allow Jon to pass. "Like takin' a breath."

Once more, there was nothing to be said.

Jon simply nodded, walking up to the pyre, his throat and chest tightening, that weight from when he'd woken returning a thousandfold.

"I'd like a moment," he choked out, not looking back to Davos, a horrible fear in him that if he looked away from Ghost it'd be the last time he saw him. He heard the other man's footsteps leaving and as soon as they were far enough everything he'd been holding back burst out of him in a sob.

Everything around him came crashing down, his chest tight and hands shaking as he removed one of his gloves and ran his hand gently through Ghost's fur.

_You will train them yourselves, feed them yourselves, and if they die, you'll bury them yourselves._

His responsibility.

Ghost shouldn't have had to pay the price for Jon's mistakes, paid for the consequences of his master's actions. There was nothing to be done, yet it tore Jon apart that this was the reality he had to live in. Losing Ghost was like losing a part of himself, the final physical piece that connected him to being a Stark.

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to Ghost's, his shoulders shaking while he quietly sobbed. He thanked Ghost over and over, apologizing for him having to give his life for Jon's when Jon felt more lost than he ever had.

More alone than he ever had despite having many good men as Davos had said.

"I promise," he whispered to the air, "I promise I'll do something worth all of this."

Pulling back, he looked over his loyal companion once more, feeling hollow and numb, spent from everything that had happened in such a short amount of time. He promised to make something out of this second chance, but part of him wondered if anything would ever be worth losing Ghost—he doubted it.

Jon ran his hand through his fur one last time, hoping he could always remember how soft it was, how comforting it felt to know Ghost was always there.

This fate had been chosen for him and he'd try to find  _why_ , to fight for the living while he was still one of them.

He grabbed one of the torches inside a nearby lit brazier, the heat of the fire somehow colder than the snow, more painful than any weight he'd carried as he placed it in the pyre set up for Ghost.

He must have stood there for hours, watching it burn, long after the sun set and he could tell people were waiting for him.

This, this was the one selfish thing he needed to do, everything else could wait until he was ready.

For now, his watch had ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated! 
> 
> Questions, comments, and the like can also be directed to our Twitters: [NESSA](https://twitter.com/NessaScribbles) \+ [THARROS](https://twitter.com/tharroswrites)
> 
>  **EDIT:** To everyone asking why we decided Ghost had to die, there are several reasons.  
> 1\. We believe that in Martin’s world, magic comes with a price (see Dany and Drogo as the prime example). To just bring Jon back to life with no counterweight felt hollow to us.  
> 2\. Every direwolf dies (or runs away) because of a mistake of its master.  
> 3\. This marks the end of a chapter in Jon’s life in which what he wants most is to be a Stark, shown by him turning down Stannis’s offer of that very thing. Ghost is Jon’s last physical tie to being a Stark. 
> 
> As we said at the beginning, some of the wrong people die in this fic. We’re trying to add weight to the world where the show took weight away.


	2. Dany I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I moved last weekend and Nessa is moving this weekend so things are a little crazy on our end! We're so happy with the response this fic has received so far and we hope you enjoy this chapter! Once we both get settled, we hope to have a more regular update schedule.

The grasses of the Great Dothraki Sea swayed in the wind like a hundred thousand dancers, the beat of the autumn wind setting a slow, lazy pace. It was so unlike the pace that Dany marched at, bare feet on warm rough earth as she tried to keep up with Khal Jhaqo's horse.

They'd been marching for days, his whole khalasar, northeast to Vaes Dothrak. Home of the  _Dosh Khaleen_ —the women Dany should have been sent to long ago, after the death of her sun and stars.

Were she not so alone amid the khalasar, Dany might have laughed. To think that  _she_ , Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of Meereen and heir to the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Breaker of Chains and the Mother of Dragons, was to be sent to live with the widows of the Khals.

Great Khaleesis—wise and strong and beautiful—kept caged by men who feared their power.

She had not fled Dragonstone or walked through fire or freed Slaver's Bay to become a crone. But Khal Jhaqo had cared little for her orders to return her to Meereen.

She would find another way. She always did.

The twin stallions that marked the entrance to Vaes Dothrak gleamed proudly over the Godsway in the distance and at last, the khalasar began to slow. It felt like a different lifetime when she'd arrived here with her own khalasar, when she'd watched them slow their march from atop her silver mare. Watched as one by one, the Dothraki gave up their weapons to the waiting slaves.

It was a small comfort to think that there, beneath the Mother of Mountains, all Dothraki were one blood, one herd. It was a bit like being home again—like stepping back into that brief, happy moment when Drogo was the greatest Khal alive and their son would be the Stallion Who Mounts the World.

Strange to think that even now, with Meereen at her feet and Daario in her bed, her time spent in this city was brighter.

Brighter even than that house with the red door.

But that time had passed, and there was nothing left for Dany in Vaes Dothrak. There was no prophecy the  _Dosh Khaleen_  could give her that would make her want to stay.

The sun would never rise in the west and set in the east. The seas would not go dry. The mountains would not blow in the wind like leaves.

Khal Drogo would never return to her. And so she must keep moving.

_To go forward, you must go back._

"To go west, I must go east," Dany said aloud, under her breath as the khalasar inched forward, Quaithe's prophecy returning to her now that it seemed to be fulfilling itself.

"Did you say something, silver Khaleesi?" asked Edavri, one of Khal Jhaqo's wives. Her Dothraki was harsh like flint on rock, but her voice was sweet and soft.

"I think it was the wind," said Dany, looking sideways at the taller woman. "Have you been to Vaes Dothrak before?"

"Once, when I was a younger girl than you."

"And did you meet the  _Dosh Khaleen?_ "

"I was not worthy of the honor," Edavri said simply, looking up at the bronze stallions as they stepped into the shadow of the statues. "Only Khals and those they choose may meet the  _Dosh Khaleen_ , unless the  _Dosh Khaleen_ themselves summon you. It is known."

"And Khal Jhaqo did not think his own wife worthy?"

Edavri turned to look at Dany, tendrils of dark hair brushing her face with the breeze. Her eyes were gold like honey, her skin deep brown and her nose a bit crooked from an old break. She had a strong set to her jaw in spite of the smile that turned on her lips as she shook her head.

"You know Khal Drogo's ways, silver Khaleesi. But Khal Drogo was not all Khals. Some Khals are worse. Some are better. Some are weaker and some are stronger. Some make their wives Khaleesi. Some do not."

Dany frowned. "And you're just... all right with that?"

"I am a wife of the great Khal Jhaqo. I have his protection. I have slaves who take care of me. I am never thirsty nor hungry," said Edavri, reaching up to touch the necklace of beads and bells she wore—the same as the adornments woven through Khal Jhaqo's braids. "I know what the world is, silver Khaleesi. I know what it was like to have hunger gnaw at my belly. I know what it was to be a slave. I know how the world treats beautiful women and ugly ones. Before I was Khal Jhaqo's wife, I knew pain and fear. Now I am happy and safe. I need no more than that."

Dany pursed her lips but did not speak as they passed the slaves who took weapons from the men. They entered the east market, where the scent of Dornish reds and Arbor whites greeted them, along with the salty smell of the sea that clung to the boxes and barrels brought by traders from all over the world.

She remembered the scent from the last time she'd been here, and another wave of nostalgia rushing through her as she breathed it in.

An assassin from Westeros had once tried to kill her here with that dry Arbor wine, but Jorah had been there to save her, and her sun and stars had sworn to conquer the continent in her name.

She had been Khaleesi then, young and wide-eyed. Now, she was Queen. Now, she was mother to dragons, not pregnant with the Stallion that Would Mount the World.

Now, she was not a stepping stone for any man—not her brother, or husband, or son.

And even the expansive city of Vaes Dothrak, even the Mother of Mountains and the Womb of the World looked small.

She'd ridden dragons.,The crones of the  _Dosh Khaleen_  would not frighten her. And a hundred thousand Dothraki screamers would not stand in her way.

People moved through the streets but parted around them as they made their way straight to the temple of the  _Dosh Khaleen_. It was custom for a Khal to pay his respects before entering his home here in Vaes Dothrak. Besides, they had a Khaleesi to deliver.

The stalls were different than they were years ago, but that was to be expected. No one lived in Vaes Dothrak save the  _Dosh Khaleen_. The merchants and traders and khalasars came and went as they pleased, but it seemed that there were many more here than the last time she'd walked these streets.

"It's  _khalar vezhven,_ " said Edavri as they walked, smiling at a young merchant who placed a flower in her hand.

"I'm not familiar with that word."

"I've never seen one either. It happens when the Great Grass Sea turns from green to yellow and when the cold wind starts to blow from the north. It's a time where all the Khals of all the khalasars meet. They'll talk about the coming winter and which cities they plan to sack, which idols they plan to add to the Godsway. Which people to enslave and which to leave be. It's an exciting time, silver Khaleesi. Much will come from these meetings."

"And do the  _Dosh Khaleen_  have a say in such meetings?"

"No. The  _Dosh Khaleen_  read the omens and make prophecies. They know nothing of the wars of the Khals."

"Perhaps if they weren't locked up in this city, they would know of such things."

"The  _Dosh Khaleen_  leave Vaes Dothrak? You make jokes, silver Khaleesi."

"Why is it so funny?"

"The  _Dosh Khaleen_  can never leave, it is known. They are sacred to us, and here they are safe. Here they can read the signs and guide the great Khals from their temple beneath the Mother of Mountains."

They walked past a stall where sweet ripe fruit gleamed in baskets, and another where adornments of glass and bronze and crystal glittered in the light of the setting sun. Their party was smaller now, just Khal Jhaqo on his horse, two of his bloodriders, and Dany and Edavri behind them. The rest of the khalasar had scattered—to visit the markets or set up camp or start roasting meat for dinner.

Perhaps if she closed her eyes, Dany could pretend it was that other lifetime. She could pretend she was returning home to Khal Drogo's house in the city.

Dany chose to keep her eyes open.

A small woman working at the jewelry stand stepped forward, a look of awe on her face as she folded a small brass ring into Dany's hands and bowed her head.

"I have heard stories," the small woman said quietly, her eyes on her feet. "Of a woman that walked into fire and created three dragons. I have heard she was a Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, that her hair was spun silver and her eyes were like bright amethyst. Are the stories true?"

Dany reached out a hand and tilted the woman's face up to meet her eyes. "They are. And since then, I have done far more than stand in fire and mother dragons. I have freed slaves and conquered cities and destroyed those who would stand against me."

"But why did you not join the  _Dosh Khaleen_  after the death of Khal Drogo?" the woman asked, voice soft as she glanced around for listening ears.

Dany slipped the gifted ring onto her finger and gave the woman a secretive smile. "Because dragons do not do well in captivity."

The woman tilted her head curiously but Dany examined the ring. It was crudely made, but rather beautiful, with small shards of purple glass set into the brass.

"Thank you for the gift," she said and the woman bowed her head again. "It will not be forgotten."

She turned and fell back into step beside Edavri, who smiled kindly. "The  _Dosh Khaleen_  are all great women, silver Khaleesi. Their Khals won great battles and ride proudly in the Night Lands."

"So the mark of a great woman is a great man?" Dany asked, raising an eyebrow. She might be amused save for how true it rang.

"A great man chooses a great woman."

"Funny how all these great men are dead."

"Are you saying Khal Drogo was not a great man, silver Khaleesi?"

There was a hint of teasing in her voice that Dany wasn't used to—only Tyrion and Daario dared to speak like that to their Queen. But here she was no better than Edavri, and there was something rather welcome in that brutal sort of honesty.

"Khal Drogo was a great man, and now he rides forever in the Night Lands. But his victories do not make me great, just as my victories do not make his stars shine any brighter."

They reached the temple of the  _Dosh Khaleen_ , a wooden structure covered in stretched animal skins that were faded from years in the sun. It sat atop a hill that overlooked the markets, but even it seemed smaller now.

The first time Dany had been here, this temple had been a place of fear and excitement, a place where she ate the raw, bleeding heart of a stallion to give strength to her child. That night seemed almost like a fever dream now.

Khal Jhaqo dismounted from his horse and handed the reigns to one of his bloodriders, bidding them return Edavri to the house before he pushed Dany up the steps to the temple. She stumbled once, but caught herself, and held her head high as she pushed back the flap and entered the dark room.

Smaller, always smaller than her memory, and empty without her bloodriders and her Khal and her faithful knight.

 _To go forward, you must go back_.

And back, indeed, she'd come.

The women of the  _Dosh Khaleen_  looked up as they entered and rose to greet the Khal. Dany recognized the High Priestess who had once blessed her child in this very room—did she know that Dany had not born a stallion, but a dragon with three heads?

Either way, she would mount the world.

"Honored Khaleen," said Khal Jhaqo. "I present another to your number, should she be deemed worthy."

"Daenerys Stormborn of the Western Lands," the High Priestess said, standing in front of Dany and studying her with a practiced eye. "You are late."

Dany said nothing as the High Priestess circled her, looking her up and down like a merchant might inspect a horse. But Dany kept her chin up—let them see she was not broken.

As the priestess finished her loop and stood in front of her, Dany raised an eyebrow. "To whom am I speaking?"

The woman narrowed her eyes—a deep brown that reminded her of Drogo—but an intrigued sort of smile tilted on her lips. "My name is Thirri, widow to the great Khal Verro."

She looked too young to be a widow. They all did, as Dany glanced around the room.

Khaleen Thirri was likely no older than forty, with ebony hair that fell in waves down her back. There was a wiry sort of muscle to her that spoke of long ago days riding at the head of a great khalasar, and the scars that crisscrossed her skin spoke more of a warrior than a meek woman who let men do all the fighting.

"And what does it take to become the High Priestess of the  _Dosh Khaleen_?"

"That is an ambitious question for a Khaleesi who chose to wander the world rather than join her sisters here," Thirri said before she turned to Khal Jhaqo. "Leave us. We will begin the  _affenaten_."

Khal Jhaqo nodded once and backed out of the temple, and another of the Khaleen appeared with a change of clothes and a small satchel.

"Come," said the woman. "We must ride for the Womb.  _Affenaten_  begins with purifying your body in the sacred waters."

"And what exactly is  _affenaten_?" Dany asked as the woman led her out of the temple with High Priestess Thirri behind them.

"It is a ceremony to determine whether you are worthy to live out your life as  _Dosh Khaleen_. It will last six suns, and on the seventh, you shall be anointed as one of our own or turned out to the Khals."

"You begin at a disadvantage," added the High Priestess. "It is forbidden to travel the world after the death of one's Khal. The Great Stallion might blind you to the omens as punishment."

They walked from the temple to a small stable beyond it, where three mares were being saddled for them as they approached.

"So is it the  _Dosh Khaleen_  who decide my fate, or the Great Stallion?" asked Dany, taking the reins of the chestnut mare they offered her and swinging herself up into the saddle. She knew better than to think she could outride the Dothraki. Still, she sat atop her mare and gazed westward into the setting sun, where Meereen and Slaver's Bay sat somewhere in the distance.

What had happened after she'd flown away on Drogon? Were all the Sons of the Harpy dead? Were her loyal advisors unharmed and still leading the proud city?

In the heat of the moment, with the sun beating down on the fighting pits and spears and fire raining down, it felt right to climb atop her dragon and prove that she was the Queen of Fire the world made her out to be. But now, far across the Great Grass Sea, away from her dragons and her people, she saw that perhaps her own pride had gotten the best of her.

What sort of Queen flees when her city is in shambles?

 _If I look back, I am lost_ —the words that had gotten her through so many difficult choices, so many horrors and mistakes. Now it seemed like a joke. To go forward, she must go back, and to go back, she must go forward.

And she  _must_  look back. She must face the choices that brought her here. If she could not find the path she'd walked, then truly, she would be lost.

 _To look forward, I must also look back_.

A mix of pride and fear and courage and will helped her climb on Drogon's back and fly far from Meereen. A reckless choice, perhaps, but her own choice all the same. So, she must stay with the  _Dosh Khaleen_  for the moment. She must consider what has happened and what she knows in order to decide what to do next. She must figure out a way not to escape, but to bring the Dothraki into her army once more.

She could fulfill Khal Drogo's promise to her on her own.

"We are the voice of the Great Stallion," said High Priestess Thirri, mounting her own horse with grace and ease. "We read the omens he sends us."

Dany nodded, some of it familiar from the last time she had been here. "How often do the omens prove true?"

"Always, Stormborn. But sometimes we mortals make foolish decisions and reject the gifts the Great Stallion plans for us."

The other Khaleen nodded sagely and they started off toward the great lake in the distance, the bells braided into their horses' manes jingling with each step they took. The sunset splashed the grass in orange and purple hues and the steady hum of insects filled the air. Fireflies blinked lazily to life, scattering with each step of the horses, some settling into their mains like tiny flickering lanterns.

"We were there the night you ate the heart, Khaleesi," said the second Khaleen, her voice a bit quieter than that of the High Priestess, but harsher too. "We know the baby you carried should have been the Stallion Who Mounts the World. You trusted a witch, and we lost a great Khal and the Stallion because of it... you might not find much love in Vaes Dothrak."

"Enough, Acchi," said Thirri with a frown. "To become  _Dosh Khaleen_  is to leave the past behind. If the Great Stallion deems her worthy, all her mistakes will be forgotten."

Dany raised an eyebrow and Thirri tied her long hair into a loose braid over her shoulder, guiding the horse with nothing but her knees.

"When you become  _Dosh Khaleen_ , you cut your hair, just as your Khal's braid was cut upon his death. This signifies the death of your time as a Khaleesi and a new beginning as  _Dosh Khaleen_. You leave your old life behind. A new Khal takes over the khalasar and in turn chooses a new Khaleesi."

"Once you are  _Dosh Khaleen_ , you do not cut your hair again," Acchi added, gesturing toward Thirri's long hair and running a hand through her own, much shorter strands. "It is how we know which of us have been  _Dosh Khaleen_  the longest. Long hair is a sign of great wisdom, much like the braids of the Khals are a sign of great strength."

"And what if you had victories of your own before your Khal died?" Dany asked, watching Thirri's face.

The older woman's scarred lip twitched and she flexed a muscle in her jaw. Something dark flashed through her eyes, but she blinked it away before meeting Dany's stare.

"The victories of a khalasar belong to the Khal. Not to the Khaleesi or the bloodriders or the screamers. Anything I did before I was  _Dosh Khaleen_  was added to Khal Verro's treasures in the Night Lands."

Dany tilted her head. "But you were a fighter, weren't you?"

"Would you like a taste, Stormborn?"

Dany smiled at the threat, knowing that even the  _Dosh Khaleen_  could not spill blood in the sacred city. "I only think it a shame that women such as yourselves are taken from the khalasar upon a Khal's death. Wouldn't your wisdom be put to better use out on the Great Grass Sea?"

"You question customs that have stood for hundreds of years," Acchi said, a frown turning at the corners of her lips. The sun, at last, disappeared beyond the western horizon and the world faded to shades of blues and greys.

Stars twinkled to life overhead and the full moon peeked out over the Mother of Mountains. It glittered in the eyes of the Dothraki women on either side of Dany and glowed cool and pale on their dark skin. It was quiet, save for the jingling of the bells, and the heat of the day faded into a pleasant chill.

Autumn had set in, there was no doubt.

Dany considered the  _customs_  she'd questioned in Astapor and Yunkai and Meereen, and she pursed her lips. "Some customs need to be questioned, otherwise the world would never change."

"And why do the Dothraki need to change? We know who we are."

They reached the bank of the Womb—the moonlight on the surface and the wind through the reeds were as beautiful as Dany remembered them, and she dismounted her horse as the other women did the same.

Dany ran her fingers through the reeds and they prickled lightly against her palms. "Do you not think you could be better? Knowing who you are does not mean that you are perfect—I've known who I was ever since I stepped out of Khal Drogo's pyre, but that doesn't mean that I don't have room to grow."

She started removing her clothes, peeling them from where they clung to her skin with sweat and blood from her journey. And then, naked save for the brass ring on her finger, she stepped into the cool water of the Womb.

"Our customs are rigid and true," said Acchi, stripping down as well and pulling a rough bar of soap from her satchel. She waded out into the water with Dany and began to scrub her clean. "We have prospered because of them."

"Things that refuse to bend—"

"Break," High Priestess Thirri cut her off. She picked up Dany's discarded clothing and began to wash it. "As you might if you refuse to bend to our ways."

Dany frowned, and Thirri gave her a piercing look as she continued, "But I do not deny you have made your point—there have been many times I've thought my khalasar would have been better served had I been there to guide them. It doesn't matter, though, because the Khals themselves would never accept such a thing."

"Then perhaps you need new Khals."

Blood and dirt from Dany's tunic muddied the water around Thirri's hands, and Acchi's soap stung Dany's skin, but neither woman broke eye contact with the other.

"You'd see Khaleesis rule the Dothraki," said Thirri.

"I'd see the Dothraki ruled by those most fit to do so."

"You have much to learn, Stormborn," said Thirri. "But the  _Dosh Khaleen_  would not be wise if we were unwilling to listen."

Dany nodded and thought that for the moment, that was as good as she would get. Patience would get her farther than force. The Dothraki valued strength, let them see that she was strong.

Acchi finished scrubbing her body and moved on to her hair, wading back to the bank to pull a different sort of soap from the pouch.

"Grasswick and ginger for the skin, rosemary and mint oil for the hair," she explained as she started working the soap over Dany's scalp. "These herbs are sacred, like the waters here, and to be washed with them is a mark of leaving the Great Grass Sea behind you."

Dany nodded, the scent too strong for her liking but she felt cleaner then she had in ages. Acchi's hands were deft and sure, working through her thick silver hair with ease.

When they were done, Acchi motioned for Dany to dip herself beneath the surface and wash away the soap. For a moment, the world was silent—nothing but the water rushing in her ears.

It was a rare thing, silence, and Dany took her time running her fingers through her hair to rinse it. She wasn't sure what was still to come in Vaes Dothrak, but she imagined that quiet wouldn't be a part of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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